What'cha Gonna Do?
by omgpink
Summary: TYL!GOKUDERAxREADER. Lust has driven many men, but never as strongly as friendship. A Mafia hitman and a Interpol officer, enemies longer than living memory, must trust each other to survive this DARK and VIOLENT world of crime.
1. Ripping the Belly Open

I'm going to say this once and you're all going to remember it:

I do not own Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

Also, my police organization, Interpol, although similar to the real Interpol, is my own invention, because I'm to lazy to do real research. Not that I know nothing about judicial organizations! I am an expert on the CIA/Gitmo, the MI5 and Abwehr during WW2, and the FBI during the Watergate scandel. I feel like it will be easier if I just invent my own police force based off of these organizations that I know from school than spend time sifting through the internet.

Dedicated to the hardcore punk music scene.

* * *

**WATCHA GONNA DO?**

* * *

Dead cops

Down on the street  
Giving poor the heat  
With their clubs and guns  
Doin' it all for fun...

Dead Cops

Watcha gonna do  
The Mafia in blue  
Huntin' for queers  
Niggers and you

-MDC, 'Dead Cops'

* * *

**-Ripping the Belly Open-**

Your heels clicked with authority on the cement floor. A guard saluted as you pressed your thumb to the sensor, unlocking the 5-inch thick steel door. On the other side, an Interpol sergeant stood erect in his blue uniform.

"This way, ma'am."

Your fiery red acrylic fingernails scooped up the clip board hanging on the wall just beyond the door. Background information with a pen attached by some twine. Behind you, the security doors closed with a solid –thunk-, and was followed by the hiss of the air-tight seal. Your powerful tap followed the sergeant, a man with the build of a pit bull, down the corridor.

Click.

Click.

Click.

What a reassuring noise. You savored the sound of your own heels beating the floor. Absentmindedly, the pen came to your lips and you sucked on it lightly on. Organized crime? The mafia? How fascinating? How devilishly fascinating? You were so used to interrogating lunatic murderers. Wheedling insane truths out of fundamentalists and terrorist. You had been drawn to their lost causes, but it was getting old. Finally, a criminal with some wiles, with some sense. The sergeant unlocked another door, this time with his own swipe card and a retina scan, then, he stepped aside and let you pass.

A disgusting fluorescent light hung over a simple brown table and two folding chairs. Two guards in blue uniforms held down the prisoner's shoulders. To your left was a mirror. A one-way window. The Interpol sergeant hid behind, watching. Violet skin like bruised petunia petals hung under the man's eyes, contrasting the sharply orange jumpsuit. Otherwise, he didn't seem like the usual murderers. His eyes weren't small. He wasn't overweight or double-chinned. He was young, possibly even handsome if he had the opportunity to groom himself. How curious. Your scarlet lips curled upward in interest.

You pulled the chair out and sat down, smoothing your deep wine-red pencil skirt as you crossed your legs. You leaned, exhaling, back in your chair, pretending to read over the clipboard. Really, you were waiting, slyly studying the Mafioso from the corner of your eye, as he glared at you through a livid death stare. Not that he was the slightest bit threatening. Anything in a straight-jacket lost its horror. Its power.

If you waited long enough, they usually blurted some out-of-place question or compliment, trying to bring a touch of normality to their lives. "Nice lipstick," or "I think my wife uses that brand of perfume." Something to make them appear a bit more normal, more human, despite their utterly perverse crimes. Despite their extreme hatred towards certain people.

And they truly were perfectly reasonable. These criminals, assassins, serial killers, and terrorists seemed so normal in their rock concert t-shirts and their fancy dinner tuxedos. Perhaps it was their utter causality that put you off. Still, it drove you to dig deeper. It drove you to find their hidden lunacy. But no matter what, you could not differentiate the men you interrogated from common strangers you met on the street. The person who bagged your groceries had a tattoo and piercings. The person who sat across from you on the bus looked at you the same way.

So maybe this one would be different. Maybe this one would finally shed light. But, sometimes, it felt like you got that degree in psychology for nothing.

So you waited, silent and smiling like a crocodile with teeth visibly poking out from her closed mouth. You waited for him to crack against the ominous silence. How long had he been in solitary confinement? You glanced at the forms on the clipboard. Two months. Poor thing.

And yet, the business suit, tailored to your curves so well, earned you not one hint of loose lips. Not one curious glance. What stubbornness! You dressed to impress every morning. To intimidate. To make all their eyes catch on fire with lust! Nothing worked better than legs without pantyhose to make the truth rush out like urine from their bladders.

"Well…

well…

well—What do we have here?" You placed the clipboard on the table gently, your eyes dangerously flashing into his, batting spider legs of mascara. His mouth still remained rock tight, his bored, tired expression not reacting to your prodding.

Well, you had more than one trick up your sleeve.

"I must say, our Chief wasn't expecting to catch a member of the elusive Vongola Mafia Family on a simple drug bust." You held up to him your right hand, showing off the red ring on your finger. Your middle finger. An evidence tag dangled onto your palm. "The Vongola emblem. It's very nice."

Ahh! A reaction. You gleefully observed his eyes narrow and his jaw muscles twitch as he clenched his teeth. You had hit a nerve. The fancy crest was something of pride. Something of power. The taunt was working. You pulled the metal band easily off your finger, it being a rather large mens' size ring, and set it on the dark wooden table, next to the clipboard. You were careful to set the crest facing you. You wanted to deprive him of his elite mafia identity, his reputation. He was captured, after all. Your Interpol unit had been chasing the Vongola criminal organization for years, among several others. Those assholes seemed to think they were above the law.

No bastard was above the law. Whether they be avengers or vigilantes, no man was above the law.

And this man, you could tell, would be a gold mine of information, a fountain of knowledge to bring Vongola down. The man looked more like a librarian than a fighter, with his far-sighted vision and dainty complexion. How could two months of prison not tarnish his refined appearance? Everything about him radiated importance, from the name brand suit he was found unconscious and bleeding in, to his amazing ability to keep silent this long. You licked your lips, tasting the bitter lipstick. Tasting a challenge.

Perhaps he needed a bit more riling up.

"We've been looking for you bastards a long time. You know that boss of yours? The one you seem ever so loyal to?" OH! Soft spot. The man looked like a growling dog preparing to bare his teeth. "Someday, he'll be locked up in a dank dark cell, raped every fucken day for—"

"FUCK THIS SHIT!" The floodgates of pent up feelings exploded, powder set on fire, so small and dainty, and you didn't really expect it. But that didn't matter. His voice was perfectly recorded by the small microphone under the table. You win. He tried to get up, squirming in his straight jacket, but the guards immediately restrained him, pushing him back in his seat.

"Don't you dare insult the tenth." He seethed.

"Or what?" You mocked. "You can't do shit. Tell me. Do you really think your going to get out of here? Do you think your pathetic boss even cares—"

"I said, SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

Ok, now, he was beginning to piss you off. Bitch? Your colleges would never... at least not to your face. How dare he? You were most especially sensitive about your gender. You were no pansy. You were a woman with a career in criminal justice. A woman who faced the dark side of humanity every day. You deserved more freakin' respect. Much more, to have fought your way up Interpol ranks WITHOUT resorting to sex. Without resorting to lay your boss. Of course they looked. They gobbled you up with their eyes. Women were rare at Interpol headquarters. So you deserved better treatment. You deserved better, but no matter what, these breasts just weighed you down. "EVIL WITCH." Your grip tightened on the pen, held in the hand resting in your lap. Even though criminal logic fascinated you, you were equally repulsed. You couldn't help but numb yourself. Your job, interrogating criminals, was like watching the guts spill out of a slaughtered cow, all putrid and tangled. Every day, you poked those guts with a stick.

But, 'fucking bitch'? Your face grew redder as he continued shouting profanities, despite the guards wrestling with him to shut him up. It was affecting you, too. "STUPID CUNT." You were always the shortest person in the elevator, even with your high heels, and you scowled at the men eying you disrespectfully. "Hey sweetheart," they whispered, like their talking to a child. They never knew who you really were, a head interrogator within your own division. A captain. If they survived one of your 'bitch fits,' they wouldn't treat you like some free piece of eye candy. Their glittering gazes always threw you off like a horse stumbling in full gallop. How can you keep your composure when men are constantly mentally undressing you? Some officers tapped their handcuffs, probably wishing they were pink and fuzzy instead of cold and metallic.

At least your own division knew what you were capable of. 'Home sweet home.' If only power was a stuffed animal you could carry around like some childish security blanket, wherever you went, in or out of your office space. That was the purpose of your scarlet, pinstripe blazer—to strike fear. To intimidate. To level this fucking football field of brawny, sweating men—the red endowing power and dominance.

You just couldn't seem to get enough of it.

It just didn't seem to get through to anyone.

You were in charge.

"YOU SHIT-FACED WHORE!" The taser sparked and his eyes rolled upward, body jerking. The guards jumped back to avoid the current. They would have been electrocuted if they were touching the prisoner.

"Watch what you're doing!" one snarled. You didn't care for one stubble of his 5 o'clock shadow. It was his fault the prisoner had gotten out of hand.

"Fucking mafia dog—" you grumbled, ignoring the bitter guard and relishing the sight of the prisoner sagging back in his chair. "You can rot in prison for all I care. Just answer my goddamn questions."

And for the first time he smiled. A smile filled with pride and loathing for your very being.

"Just kill me. I'm not telling you shit." Your eyes flashed, nostrils flaring. What was wrong with him? Most murderers gave in by now. Flaunting your body didn't work. Pain didn't work.

"How long do you want to stay in this piss-hole, huh? Ten years? Fifty?" you threaten, trying to equal his composure. He was like those self-confident suicide bombers, those brainwashed extremists decorated with hidden explosives. Freakin' martyr. Nothing was worth dying for. Nothing was worth rotting in jail for.

But his lips were tightened again, following his word. So fuck him. Would you look at that, eh? The mafia were psycho after all.

You pick up your clipboard, hating your defeat. Well, there was one fact that consoled you. Solitary confinement wouldn't last forever. And he sure did have a girly ass. One inmate would have his sexual fantasies made true.

You flicked out a cigarette from the stash you kept in your breast pocket and snapped a flame from your lighter. A glimmer of desire alighted in your prisoner's eyes, but you missed it. You were already moping about what you were going to tell your boss. You weren't doing well these days. Your previous case had committed suicide in his cell.

"Private, get me the bucket of water."

Water-boarding it would be. You couldn't fake kindness with that pretty face of yours anymore.


	2. Wobbling on the Ladder

**WATCHA GONNA DO?**

**

* * *

**

When cowboy Ronnie comes to town  
Forks out his tongue at human rights  
Sit down, enjoy our ethnic meal  
Dine on some charbroiled nuns  
Try a medal on  
Smile at the mirror as the cameras click  
and make big business happy

-The Dead Kennedy's, 'Bleed for Me'

* * *

**-Wobbling on the Ladder-**

You hated waiting around for your boss to get off the phone. You leaned against the closed door, fingers tapping on the manila folder you hugged to your chest. Analysts, secretaries, attaché's and messenger boys flooded the endless canyon of cubicles in front of you, buzzing with coffee and ticking with keyboards. This side of the Interpol compound, a panopticon with trained dogs, infrared snipers, nuclear-fallout shelters, and an eighty-acre training mountain, smelled of Kinkos and Sharpies.

Normalcy was always just around the corner.

Usually, you just went off for a few minutes while you waited for that barking chief of yours to stop salivating on his telephone receiver. Break rooms were scattered around the complex. What would it matter if you walked away? Stole a cup of coffee from the corporals, watching each catch himself from mouthing off? Chatted with the female analysts in the ladies' room, savoring each piece of gossip? Which bosses had the small penises? Which officers were cheating on their wives? Gossip was a voodoo doll in this bureau of secrecy.

Who was next to be stuck with a pin?

Camaraderie? The world was filled with strangers. Most didn't give out candy. If they did, it was tossed in the air like a basketball at game-start. Each woman had the same invisible sticker: 'Hello, my name is Egotistical Bitch.' But it couldn't be helped. Charles Darwin and his Galapagos Islands equaled the shredder machines downstairs.

So what kind of vagina clawed a hole through that notorious glass ceiling? The kind with an attitude of a rusty hammer? Either a rusty hammer or a fucking shoe. Whatever was at hand, standing on a wobbling ladder.

Still, you and all the other women, checking contact lenses or brushing teeth in the ladies' room, had cuts from those broken, falling shards of glass. The glass was as clear as a used douche bag.

When would he get off the phone? You began to bite your nails. The fake acrylics hurt your teeth, but the report on your desk was serious. It was important. You couldn't just dally off. Only a couple days had passed since your interrogation of that goddamn mafia dog. This just didn't make sense. There was no way a report, stamped with the red-inked 'Case Closed,' could be waiting for you on your desk this soon.

What the fuck was going on?

Your palm enclosed the doorknob, impatient to open it. HUH! It wasn't locked? The decision was an easy one to make.

"Chief! How could you just let my man walk out?" You waved a mug shot that flashed of silver hair and scowls, with a few russet red blood drops staining the corners.

"Hold on for just one second, Kusakabe-sama," Chief Ronald Nicholson said, cupping his telephone's mouthpiece hurriedly, his growl rather tame as he pulled the line closer to his chest.

"Get out of my office, Captain! It has been weeks since we captured him." He used a special piece to muffle the conversation.

"But sir!—"

"Even if that bastard was in the mafia, which I doubt, it's too late now. Information like that is time sensitive." His voice was rife with bullets. "The trail is cold."

"What are you talking about? Chief! He knows names. He knows the identities of the other members." You paced the office, then closed the blinds, covering the soundproof window. "He knows how they have been evading every goddamn trap we set. You can't just let him walk out!"

"Well, what were you doing? Having a tea party with him every afternoon?" He quieted and sat back sneering. "Or having too much fun beating the shit out of him?"

You slowed down. Since when had that been a problem? "Sir, he's not human. He's a monster. The Rights groups—"

"What's your name again? I'm sorry. I forgot," he interrupted sarcastically. He had turned around to rummage through a file cabinet behind him, the telephone and muffler pushed together, pinned by his ear against his shoulder.

You were silent for a while. He knew your name like a high school principal knew all the delinquents, the kids who mouthed off when a couple cops dragged them out of the school. Not that you were any delinquent, of course.

You told him your name slowly, venomously stabbing each syllable, mouth like those gargoyles suicidally leaning off of a cathedral's flying buttress. Then, you pulled back, patting your neat, professional up-do. You bitterly stared at the portraits of previous Interpol Chiefs, dressed in fine military regalia. Not his panoramic office view of the training mountain. If you cried, your mascara would run. So your eyes just ached in the corners.

"Sir, this is ridiculous!" You turned back the Chief. "IT'S NOT ENDING HERE! Fifty years of planning, sir! We've been after the Vongola Organization for fifty years!" You pointed at the stoic faces, faces as strong as a grandfather clock in an old, leaky house.

"Fuck—" he swore under his breath. His hold had slipped and the phone had fallen on the floor. He immediately picked it up, now with a folder similar to yours in hand. Only the Interpol seal was from another department, of another color.

"No, no, sir, I assure you, nothing is the matter. Yes, Kusakabe-sama. Are you sure you don't want to speak in Japanese?" He seemed to be biting his tongue, but it was hard to tell. His cheeks were always chubby like he was chewing on something. "Thank you for your concern. I am sorry you had to hear that just now. Our workers are very passionate about their duties." The evil eye lifted like a hunter hearing a twig snap. "Your foundation's most generous grant is not being wasted, I assure you." He eyed you coldly and waved his hand to shoo you out of the room.

You huffed. You looked at the 'case closed' report, and then back at him. Since when did Interpol take grants? Military research was only funded by a budget agreed upon by an international council, not by any private millionaires. And what did he think you were, an idiot? To say this right in front of you!

"Sir!" He swiveled around in his leather chair to face the wall and ignore you.

Where was the loyalty? The dignity? The _honor_? Did he have any sense of cause? Would he really take a bullet for Interpol? Whatever corporate pushover he was talking to, he was kissing his ass. _Fine._ You slammed his office door behind you and the loud bang resonated through the main room. The workers gaped, mostly men, some couriers from other divisions.

What was she doing? Did they have a lovers spat? You took a moment to try and calm yourself, but it was useless. You had a squish-ball in your desk….

" CAPTAIN, Get back in here, RIGHT NOW!" _You thought it was sound proof._ You painfully bit the inside of your cheek, the muscles of your jaw shaking in frustration. With what had been shouted... How could you work under such a man?

He was off the phone now, his face shining with sweat. He was kneading his temple and eyebrows with his forefinger and thumb. You crossed your arms over your chest, intolerant of fascist, greedy tyrants. You always gave your boss the benefit of the doubt, but now, he had made his corruption all too obvious. Fallen to bribery. What was money when there were psychos out there, waving their dandy swords and blowing up shit all over the place.

It was a war out there.

"I've had enough of your behavior," he emphasized softly, combing his fingers through his slick oiled hair. "You're fired." Maybe it wasn't bribery. He said it like a dream come true.

"I'm what!" you shouted, eyes ablaze like you're outfit. He looked up, tired, but resolute.

"You're fired. Now get out of my sight." He looked away from you, out the window. Your eyes narrowed, but you refused to leave.

"Sir, you cannot fire me without a legitimate reason." You knew your contract. He couldn't fire you for raising your voice. Men shouted all the time over their sports. PAH! SPORTS!

"Sergeant Bristol gave me his opinion of your interrogation with Gustav Platera, the suspected mafia man. You know of him." You burned at the name from the _real_ passport. "Certain outside parties found your method's unacceptable." He flicked a report across his desk to you.

"What parties?" _The Rights Groups?_ "I used standard interrogation procedure! That's the only party that matters!"

"You can't taser or water-board an innocent civilian, _Captain_. We had no evidence to connect him to the mafia." Suddenly, the Légion d'honneur pinned to his chest became much more intimidating.

"People who associate themselves with Mafia Organizations are not civilians, sir. What was the ring? The crest?" Just you and that old burnt up rocket ship that got you through college, now. "They are thieves and murderers." You took the report and flipped through it, admiring all the made-up bullshit. "If there is a problem with protocol, sir, perhaps you ought to fire the idiot who can't even forge a believable report."

"It's real and you know it is." He was famous for that face. "As for the ring, it was found to be a fake by Dr. Ludlov. Probably planted."

Your carpet had been pulled from underneath you.

"It was a set-up. You should have seen that."

Innocence was not something you tripped over every day.

"When's he being released?" You knew enough to change the subject. No one you interrogated had ever been released. This complex was the end of the world.

"When?"

"It doesn't concern you. I don't even know why you got that report."

But something else was on your mind. How many murderers thought of you while they were strapped in the chair? How many thought about crouching, giggling on the wet forest floor poking your guts with a stick?

"Sweetheart." The correction, 'Captain,' was on the tip of your tongue, but now, you had nothing to say. He was smiling differently.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Witness Protection Program?

That didn't work for the Vongola.

"_You_ bastard." A blistering middle finger flashed up.

"Out!" His temper returned like an orca rushing onto the beach, all black and white and chomping hungry.

You glared at him, hating every inch of his silk suit, as he fanned himself with the returned evaluation. You opened your mouth. He pointed at the door. His famous face was television set turned off, interrupting the speech of the desperate anchorman.

Your teeth clicked shut with the same noise.

The door clicked shut with the same noise.

Two blue uniformed guards found you outside the Chief's office. One had a semi-automatic slung over his shoulder, the other carried a clipboard with paperwork.

"We're here to escort you across the premises, Ms.…," he ruffled through the sheets on his clipboard.

"It doesn't matter," you said, rushing back toward your desk, not on this level, but three flights up in the forensic psychology wing. They trailed behind you.

"Ma'am, we've cleared your possessions from your office. They're waiting for you at the parking garage." A piano, hurtling ten meters per second per second, dropped on your back. Did they catch the change in your perfect-straight poise? This was an emergency ejection. Only traitors had their office packed up for them.

What did it mean? The piano still pushed down on your back. One fucking heavy piano, all pointlessly grand.

You quickly slipped a glance down a narrow cubicle corridor.

"I'm not going to my office, gentlemen. I've left some valuables in Noble Hall's locker room." Like a game of blackjack with only one card shown to the opponent, a partial truth. But hey, some people might die for lipstick, towels, and cigarettes. Your burgundy heels turned down the corridor, the click absent, hushed on cheap, thin carpeting.

In Noble Hall, well-behaved prisoners set up targets on an indoor firing range, setting up the dummies that would soon be black with bullets. It was a joke to aim at them like golfers aimed at the ball-collecting machines.

You told that joke to an old college friend. It didn't go over very well. She looked sick, not like a ripper's crazy tongue, pushed through the bars, licking the smell of a woman's perfume. The other kind of sick.

So was it normal? Golf balls were normal.

Right?

But anyway, Noble Hall was right next to the prison.

Weren't you fired?

A crooked smile graced your wry lips like a soldier falling into line.

You simply just couldn't trust your boss with that kind of decision.


	3. Muscling through the Crowd

**WATCHA GONNA DO?

* * *

**

What's the problem?  
Is it justified?  
Or are we dealing  
With our fucking prides?  
Do you really want to leave it alone?  
I don't know what it's worth to you,  
It's all I fucking own

-Minor Threat, 'No Reason'

* * *

-**Muscling through the Crowd**-

Rouge lipstick smudged onto the scarlet ID card, red on red from holding it in your mouth. Why red? What was the essence of it? Bullfighter's tossed those crimson capes, but few people knew those bleeding cows were colorblind. Nope, it was the sequins that enraged them, that darkened their eyes. Those little flickers of light reflecting the high afternoon sun—that's what made a bull charge across the flat, sandy arena.

Conquer or Die.

You flicked out a pair of sunglasses from the lining of your jacket. Aviators. They shone like security cameras. You crossed the quad in wide steps, using the same fleshy movement of a cougar. Your nose sensed the smell of gun polish, a thick chemical smell, from the men behind you. The quad was surrounded on all sides by concrete structures crowned with satellites. Headquarters was like an old school, steadfast and brimming with tradition. Specialists of criminal psychology, forensic science, espionage, and law were scatter and mixed, gelled together in different cells of a massive bloodhound, you currently at the tip of its nose, screaming VONGOLA.

The quad was quiet this morning. In the distance, a drill sergeant shouted above marching trainees. At your side, your two privates followed. One flipped though his paperwork, looking busy, and the other fiddled with the strap of his gun. Eagles and lions crawled across the frieze of nearby monument. Names jumped out at you, rising above the marble surface, and you said them under your breath. You remembered the kid who brought you coffee once, the way his beret tilted to his side and his dimpled smile reminded you that not everyone was a psychopath. Death felt like a raisin in your mouth. Chew. Swallow. Digest. The best cops knew what they had to do, and you were one of them. A guilty man was being released. Paperwork was being signed. Money was being passed under some mahogany table and a box of cigars shared to ease the nerves. Corruption. Those Galapagos Islands. The shredder machines downstairs. Your files running through them, falling white ribbons.

"Ma'am, if you could just tell me your locker number, I could retrieve the contents for you," clip-board boy said with a firm, masculine voice.

"It's all right, Corporeal," you replied, smiling at how they annoyed you. "This is such a small matter. I'd prefer to handle it myself, thank you." At the center of the quad, a forest of flagpoles shaded the walkway. One represented your homeland, but your eyes merely glanced over it. Three years ago, you had saluted fidelity in this grassy field, radiating more than patriotism, more than small town militia pride. _Interpol was for the world._

Towards the west, Noble Hall rose above a one-story administration building. Corinthian columns supported its triangular pediment, engraved with a scene of the Olympians battling the vulgar Titans. You loved the way righteous way Athena yanked a nude male by the hair into the sky. The creature's face writhed in agony while the virtuous goddess consulted her angels and ignored his screaming mother, Gaia. Tartarus loomed on the other end. If you squinted, you saw that the captured monsters fought like crabs in a barrel to escape.

"Ma'am, really, I'm not sure—"

You halted, stretching an arm and the guard bumped into it. When he started to speak, you interrupted him. He kept calling you ma'am. Ma'am this, ma'am that. The attitude was peaking through.

"Give it a break, Corporeal. Even tourists are allowed into Noble." You looked over the shoulder. "Sir, I don't see what the problem is."

"Ma'am," but your heels already clicked forward. Onward. Ahead. This quad was so spacious, and yet, you were elbowing through ghosts.

* * *

A few minutes later, you were pushing though the real crowd in Noble Hall's atrium. A hive of visiting delegate, recognizable by the laminated visitors' ID cards pinned to each one's suit, huddled together like a crowd of sheep. None were women. They made the air creamy think with their judgmental glances and questioning tones. You hustled by them, standing out in that tart-red jacket. Red was for the psyche unit.

Further inside the building and up a few flights of stairs, officers in grey sweat-suits, wet in the pits, back and neck, passed you. Some had towels over their shoulders, others tore into energy bars. Was that the smell of testosterone? Or just mens' deodorant? There were no women on this floor. Women did not work jobs that required strength at Interpol. Sure they performed some bat-shit crazy duties. You thought of the morgue. You thought of how much physical strength it took to open a cadaver cabinet weighed down with a 150 pound corpse.

Besides, what use was muscle strength in front of a loaded colt? A woman could protect herself with a gun. The women practiced at the shooting range; _at least that's what the men thought_.

Truthfully, you were always too busy for such hobbies. And you didn't have to know how to shoot a target ten feet away to shove a gun in someone's face and demand 'Where are they?'

You came to the junction point. The mens' locker room was to the right and the womens' was to the left. The left was, as Robert Frost might say, the lesser walked of two paths. A brown water-stain, dyed with asbestos, decorated the ceiling above the left door and the lack of maintenance made you sigh. Behind you, you noted the lighter flick and the two lean against the hall. They hid joints under cupped hands, guns and clipboard under their armpits.

Inside, the blue tiled walls smelled of bleach and crumbling plaster. You didn't bother turning the light-switch on. That would only make life easier for those two buffoons when they tripped inside. Worst came to worst, they would be right behind you in the unemployment line. You strode by the lockers, prisons in their own right, around a few Z-curves, past the toilet stalls, and further, to the open showers.

Still no women, you smiled.

And it was there, right there, just above and between the fifth and sixth spray nozzle, a board of wood wedged in place and covering the little grating of a window. It was just a piece of old plywood, rotted and moldy, and you lifted it off and let it drop to the floor. Natural light shone into the tiled stalls. Your hands settled akimbo. Peeping Tom's ghost was just outside along with a few bushes pulled to block the view. No glass covered the window. No disgusting sooty glass. But no ladder either.

You hoisted yourself up, suit stretching at your back. Your head peaked though the hole. Blindly you felt for the shower knob with your toe and you pushed yourself until the window wrapped around your belly button. Cool wood chips stuck to your nails as you clawed the ground. You twisted, but those feminine hips! You wriggled and squirmed, no sleek cat of grace anymore. And one more great kick—and you lost your shoe.

The ruby shoe clicked on the empty floor. Locker rooms echo.

You tried to lean your body vertically, knees knocking the wall, but your toes still couldn't reach the floor. An ankle whacked against the shower knob. Only the shower knob. That was too high up. Sunglasses slipped off your face. Hair fell down, tousled and messy. Give up the shoe?

Give up the shoe.

Aching, rubbing your stomach, smoothing your jacket, and adjusting your specks, you peered back into the dark shower. The shoe looked like a red life-saver in a blue ocean. You couldn't go back for it. And so, you were quick to run hunched under the shrubs that bordered the building. When you came around the building, you glided wordlessly into a crowd near a statute of two fighting lions. In such a crowd, no one would notice one foot stood only on bare toes.

You kept your eyes down.

* * *

"Where is your other shoe," asked the guard with the clipboard laughing, looking down and cocking his head to the side. His black baseball cap made him seem more like a baseball fanatic than any police officer, especially with that grin plastered on his face. You were too important to be stopped by such base security. The German shepherd on the leash watched you with ruddy eyes. Crust dripped from the inner corners over matted fur. Beside the dog, a large chain fence stabbed the ground, and beyond, the dusty gray prison complex.

"Up Nicholson's ass. Let me in."

"Whoa, easy there ma'am. I know it's a bugger your ID won't go through the system, but I still can't let ya in without clearance." He had already swiped your card on the electronic clipboard several times, and with a little encouragement, slapped it with his palm.

"I told you, my card was scratched up in the accident. This is an emergency."

He swiped your card again and his tablet still registered stop-red instead of go-green. You grunted. The dog growled, very softly. Was your cop smell wearing off already?

"Ma'am," he sighed, "the machine's just not readin' it." You crossed your arms over your chest and the dog suddenly snarled and barked, filling in the hole of where a badge ought to be. You stepped back, eyes shifting from the dog to his taut leash.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Damn, don't make any sudden movements, ma'am."

"What?" You looked at the dog and it lunged at you. Its eyes were wide.

"Don't look him in the eyes and you'll be fine!" The guard had the chain wrapped thrice around his two hands, the tablet now on the ground. The dog held its ground, but its ears were back and its eyes had just as much expression as a human's.

"Fuck you! Watch your dog." How could some bozo like this still be working at Interpol when here you were, cream of the crop, scared to death of all _this this this._

"Carl! Down boy!" the guard said sternly, but the Shepard's claws clicked on the concrete walkway and his teeth curled against black-pink lips.

"That _thing_ ought to be put somewhere else." You just wanted to get inside. That prison held everything that mattered. A man who held back a much larger dog on a much thinner chain. Vongola. Money and mafia wiles. Those things didn't grow on trees.

"Private! Get your hound together!"

"He's just trained to be like this ma'am. Carl!" The guard switched from trying to talk to you to settling his dog down. "It's not his fault."

"I don't have time for this." The guard was trying to push the dog's rear down, whispering kind words, trying to get him to sit. "I really don't have time for this!" you shouted to get the guard's attention when a hand came down to grasp your shoulder.

"So juvenile. You can just come with me." You turned and your pounding eyes swooped him up a down. His returning gaze only floated over you and came to settle upon the guard. You shifted your weight, hand on your hip, elbow pointed sharply back at the black guard. Your aura implored "who the hell are you?" like a bull saved from slaughter, eyes bleeding rage.

"Inspector Fuji." He didn't bother with any ID, but he had an all-access visitor's pass pinned to his breast. "She promised to show me the administrative faculties. Apparently, they are sloppily run. What is your name?" You removed the visitor's hand from your shoulder and it dropped to his side, and watched him glare at the security guard. He had strict eyes, an immaculate suit and a Japanese mouth without a Japanese accent. His black hair stuck out like the barbed wire fencing above you—a man not meant to be touched. The dog lay down on its belly.

"Uh," the guard looked astonished. "Wow. Carl? Um, Private Gunthner, Sir."

"Just another lackey, huh." Finally, _finally_, he looked at you. "So you're in charge? Or do you just like wearing red?"

"I'm a Captain, Inspector." Your eyes shifted to the guard and you winced. He rubbed his German Shepard's belly, handcuffs jangling against his belt.

"Get your card then, _Captain_."

"Uh, yes sir," and returning back to the guard, body still wriggling in confusion, "my card, private."

"You like animals?" The guard asked the inspector, ignoring you. The inspector looked away irritated. He turned his head to the side, refusing to put his body into the conversation.

"They have their uses."

"Private!" He sneered at you, patting his dog a few more times.

"I hear you. This old boy saved my life once. He's some dog, I tell yah."

The inspector was checking a slick black phone.

"Captain, you could use a dog though. Haha, I know another animal lover when I see one." He nodded toward the man he was so taken with.

"This is, indeed, sloppy work. I'll have to report you."

"Sir?"

"I don't have time for this chit-chat."

"Sir! Yessir." The old guard turned grudging and cold, straightening to attention and holding out your red identification. "Sir." He looked like his dog now, who was scampering back into the guard hut, tail in between its legs. You sighed. Something lucky had fallen into your lap. Athena? Is that you? You accepted the card like your final paycheck. Dirt still clumped wet under your nails, but it was hidden under Carmen Sandiego nail polish.

The gate buzzed open. You plunged the ID into your jacket, reminding yourself to breathe. Two ways. This could end in two ways.

"Inspector, uh, what can I do for you, sir?" Did you really want to seem so helpful? Stick yourself to him like dripping honey?

Could he get your job back if he liked you?

"Sir, there are some weaknesses in our organization that I can to bring to light."

Foxy swagger returned as you passed metal on your right and left, a few steps behind him. His eyes reminded you of the paintings of the old founders. He had good eyes. Connoisseur eyes. What if he saw a Vongola? Would he bite it and see if it were real?

"Make all the fuss you want," he said. "Just walk faster."


	4. Breaking Open the Door

**WHATCHA GONNA DO?**

* * *

You see me and you laugh out loud  
You taunt me from safe inside your crowd  
My looks, they must threaten you  
To make you act the way you do

-Minor Threat, 'Seeing Red'

* * *

**-Breaking Open the Door-**

The top floor of the International Prison was cold, steel-gray, and sterile, a gravestone. Below the concrete foundation at the same geological level that nuclear waste is stored, the world's most vile and insane criminals resided. They crept about more real than any Hannibal Lector or Boogie-monster, vampires waiting to be unleashed the day their coffins were unlocked. Up, up through the dirt, past the knots of metal and laser beam sensors and infrared cameras, up, up, from these depths of a frozen over hell, a somewhat normal world scurried.

You followed the tall man. His gait was consistent and tireless. In fact, Hibari Kyoya was always good at getting through customs. When Raskolnikov would have spilled his suitcase open and betrayed guns, drugs, and secret files, this man who walked ahead of you would quietly say "business," with the coldest of eyes. You judged him from behind, memorizing the back of his tailored suit. The inspector had a very nice suit. He seemed to know where he was going better than you, too, and the thought gave you security until you wondered if he might later criticize your lack of initiative. All in all, man had an uncanny resemblance to your elementary school principal, and you dared not speak out or let your pushiness break from the soul in your eyes. The secretaries also judged you beneath horn-rimmed glasses. This sector did not see red-suits too often. The psychology section did not mouse about the cells, but stuck to its books and its theories.

Finally, you reached the first security door, a black monster with a side panel for reading finger prints and scanning eyes. The door was a mouth, and it had two eyes. One red. One green.

"Let me, sir," you said, brushing past your escort. You spread your hand on the gel pad and lowered your head for the camera. Small red lights traced your hand and another red laser targeted you eye. The color, red, it made you hold your breath, made you wish you hadn't come this far—for what if the color did not change? Red – Emergency – Explosions – Death. A simple logical sequence. So a streetlight's fire smothered you. This was the last intersection. Beyond this door, you would find Platera. Behind this door, you would find the hornet that got away with his stinger.

The door clicked and the monster winked green. Isn't it lucky that it took your credentials at least two hours to be cleared from the database? What ought to have happened: the door locked double tight and in some black office stuffed with televisions screens, yet another man would have called for your downfall. But Athena was on your side today.

Your escort walked in first, and you shadowed him, slinky and light-footed, your ruffled countenance invisible behind this immaculate gentlemen. He carved you a path to your meat in this concrete savannah. Two guards stood within, facing each other with their backs against the wall like griffin statues might in front of the oldest of temple, one more tradition carried down through the ages. At the opening of the door, one stepped toward you and the inspector. You reached for your ID, but he held up his hand.

"Go on ahead Miss. I recognize you," he explained. "But your guest needs to register with me."

"I do not need to register with anyone," the inspector replied, looking the guard over. Nonetheless, the clipboard was pushed his direction. "Okay, I'll go on ahead," you said muttered. So today, you were that special fish that rode a shark through waters soaked in blood, hiding just under its belly. There are a million metaphors in the animal kingdom. Leeches. Vultures. Crooked necks, guillotine beaks, and the ugliness of a silhouette above the sky. You were no romantic hero, no lion, but a base creature only desiring survival. The inspector, who was being patted down, watched sourly as you turned around and asked, "Platera? Same cell?"

"We just released him actually. You didn't hear? He's picking up his possessions." The guard tossed his thumb over his shoulder, cradling his other in the Uzi's strap.

"Yes, okay," you smiled. "I remember now," you said, shoving past the group, heading where the guard pointed. You continued past the changing rooms, until finally, you rounded a corner and leaned against the wall. The other guard had followed behind you to make sure you got the way right. He was a brute, the opposite of the rail of a man your institute imprisoned.

"This is the one," he said. "Here to say good-bye or something?" the guard asked "The poor guy was cleared as totally innocent. He never seemed that dangerous to me, but you never know who's nuts these days," he muttered, standing outside the door beside you. Your eyes flicked to him suspicious and annoyed, then lowered to the handgun tucked in his belt.

"Then you should not be armed, sergeant. This man has been through quite enough."

"Oh this?" the guard held up the device lightly on a finger, then let it drop. "This is just a toy. Its nothing. Now the boys downstairs? They got the good stuff, lucky bastards. Heat-seeking bullets. I tell you, they don't even need to aim." Men. They always think you're just teasing them. He looked at you like you were flirting with him. "Do you enjoy holding a gun?"

"I'm sick of guns. Take a hike sergeant. And don't you have dismissal forms to fill out for Platera?" He straightened, out off by your masculine tone.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really."

"So paper duty then?"

Yes. Hand in your weapon. I'll bring it back to the front guard." You held out your hand, standing staunchly on your one high heel.

"Women," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"If it weren't for these guns," he said, ignoring your anger, "those nightmares downstairs will ride you all through the night, lady. I wouldn't be so sick of them." He removed the pistol and handed the whole machine to her. "Have it your way. I'm tired of just standing around here, so I don't mind managing the files. That secretary's sure a nice girl," he smiled and left.

You kicked off the heel, and once more backed against the door.

You ghosted fingers on the door's handle. It was a big, heavy door, like something to a janitor's closet. You would have to yank down the handle with great force. Your mind wandered to the taste of cigarettes and black coffee. Sweat-squeezed-out-like-a-twisted-towel. Your hand lifted from the handle and, nervously, you remade your ponytail. You were hesitant? The last time you had seen this man, he was a chained cocoon. But the black horseflies on walls, with their technicolor, honey-combed vision, were more prepared than you. They could do _this_ more than you? They knew when to move at just the right time to avoid the swatter, buzzing into the air in annoying victory. Oh, what you would do to be the annoying winner who lived. You were more likely the pest that beat its head endlessly on the window. Only main characters pull off great escapes. What was a normal police dog? Just another causality? Could you really do this? Could a fly do this? Flies couldn't hoist a gun.

You closed your eyes, imaging a whole swarm of hornets mobsters after you, the innocent interrogator. Vongola hornets with V-shaped stingers. All after the cop that got in their way. A slit throat in the middle of the night, choking on the blood that seeped into your lungs. Or poison. Arsenic. No one would give you CPR when your heart stopped because of the suspicious white powder set on those rouge lips. Who made the rules? Who? Not you. The hornets would bite first and then sting, and then hoist up their own shotguns.

You pushed the handle down, and with your foot in the wedge, kicked the door open. Your elbows locked, lifting the pistol to eye level. This wasn't something to slip up. No, the door must open smoothly, and it did. The enemy must be unaware, and he was. He was clipping on a broken wristwatch. His archer's concentration fiddled with some tiny screw in the joint, which wouldn't let it snap shut. When you whipped open the door, his wristwatch loosened, immediately sagging, and with dangerous eyes he shot a narrowed glance at you. His nose scrunched, as if smelling something disgusting—but you were already making that face. Then, your mouth curved upward so femininely. This was going your way and you kept the gun on him as your bare feet padded closer.

"Hands on the back of your head."

"Why the fuck are you here?"

"Tell them you're with the mafia, or else" you barked roughly. "I know what you are. It's about time you admitted it." Your head beat towards the door. "Go out there and confess."

"Hm," he slumped, unimpressed. "Cops can't do shit."

You shot the tray on the table, containing confiscated possessions. The recoil knocked your wrist up, but you re-aimed quickly. He jostled to the side. Yeah, fuck off? Tell that to your six caliber bullets. Only when you lifted that hulking too-heavy gun, weighty with so many intentions and false threats made real, did you catch the flick of his silver wrist. And the gun just blew out of your hands, and flew to the side. Metal hit the cinder-block wall leaving a dark black scuff-mark. You stepped back, shifting attention from the weapon to Platera, who hood-jumped over the table with the strong nimbleness of a gymnast, of a soldier not meant to be a soldier.

"What did you do?"

"Cops can't do shit," he said again, like it were the title to the mafia guidebook for handling cops.

You stepped further back, dazed at how you were disarmed and tensed mouth envious of his heavy, symmetrical footsteps.

"Don't come near me!" he gave you a dirty look, but he wasn't walking towards you. "Platera!" He was walking towards the gun on the floor.

"Platera, don't!" You said and you knew it wasn't his name by the way he smiled. All intellectual arrogance. "Platera!"

"Just shut up."

"You're a sick sadistic monster."

He looked like he had a headache.

"Look who's talking."

"Don't you dare," you pointed.

He put his foot on the gun.

"Bastard," you spat. The words came from your teeth instead of your lips. He stopped his hand just above the gun, and then withdrew it into his pocket. That intellectual sleekness was gone, replaced by cheeks, eyes, and mouth tight as a fist. His marble skin turned clay red. He was easier to break this time around, and you knew why.

He was in no straight jacket. No, he was a fish two inches above the ocean. He smelled the salt. "I hate your voice." He pulled a cigarette from his pocket.

He could snap your neck, his eyes said. He could snap it like he pinched that cigarette and rubbed it into the masonry. He turned his head back around and stooped for the gun.

"I remember you. Don't think I'm an idiot," he said. He sucked up his cigarette. You didn't say a word. You wondered if he would shoot you in the back if you ran to the door. To your amazement, the man flicked open the loading chamber and pocketed the remaining shells. "Don't give me your shit. I hate people like you. You think you know everything." You reminded yourself of the exacto-knife in your pocket book. You wish you had that at least. What straight jacket was keeping him from shooting you? Strangling you? The more personal the murder, the more the killer wanted to look into their victim's eyes when they died.

He aimed the empty barrel at you and pulled the trigger. The sound of the harmless click made you feel sick. You noticed his eyes were green, but they seemed as dead as the barrel of the gun he pointed.

"Hayato, we have more important things to do than play cops and robbers." The voice came from behind you. Maybe the gun was aimed behind you too. "Turn your phone on. I've been trying to contact you."

"What took you so long, dammit?" You whipped around and stepped aside. That Mr. Fuji, his hair ruffled and his tie loosened and his eyes sterner, stood behind you.

"Don't smoke near me. Disgusting."

You spoke the inspector's name, but you could not finish. A stick had rammed into your gut and you lost your breath, crumbling onto the floor.


End file.
